


This Doesn't Look That Much Different From Home

by orphan_account



Category: Raven Cycle - Maggie Stiefvater
Genre: M/M, Pining, Turtles, future sexytimes
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-02-24
Updated: 2015-02-24
Packaged: 2018-03-14 21:46:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,598
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3426695
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Parrish,” Ronan begins slowly, a broad smile spreading over his face that makes him appear both sharp and thoroughly delighted. “Did you get a pet?”</p><p>“It’s a turtle,” Adam says unnecessarily.</p>
            </blockquote>





	This Doesn't Look That Much Different From Home

**Author's Note:**

> Title taken from Richard Siken's poem "Litany in Which Certain Things Are Crossed Out"

_**RONAN** _

Ronan used to pray when he was a child. He prayed a child’s prayers – _O Lord, please grant us peace and happiness and make Mummy’s garden bloom really bright this spring because she’s been working really hard on it. Thanks. Amen._ The thing that bothers him now is that he does not remember whether he stopped praying after his father died, or before.

He’s given up on praying now, of course, but he still loves the quiet of the church. Even with Declan piously moving his lips at the end of the pew, even with Mathew’s slumped form between them, Ronan goes to Sunday service because he genuinely likes it. If there’s no God to look over them – and Ronan tries not to think about this – then at least this is the one pretense he will allow himself.

This Sunday is a Sunday like any other, except that it is slightly chillier than Henrietta tends to be at this time of year. Declan’s presence is urgently needed elsewhere, and Matthew goes with him, which leaves Ronan to exit the church alone. He pulls his jacket tighter around himself, shivering, and ducks behind a column to let the rest of the worshippers make their way out of the church. He watches them for a few moments. Then the careful Sunday routine breaks.

“Hey, Lynch.”

Ronan would know that voice anywhere in the world, any time zone and any city and any slum. He has to grudgingly give Adam some credit for the simple way with which he manages to twist Ronan’s heart into a wild version of itself with only two syllables at his disposal. For the most part, Ronan’s heart is perfectly content to reside in the crooked cage of his ribs. But Adam’s voice always takes it upon itself to drag a stick along the cage bars. Maybe Ronan should consider hanging up a _Do Not Antagonize the Animals_ sign somewhere.

“Hey yourself.” A deep breath, the hint of a lazy smile. Ronan doesn’t lie, but that doesn’t mean that he’s eager to walk around with his heart bleeding all over his hands. Stitching it onto his sleeve would be a nightmare. Literally.

“Come up for a second, yeah?” Adam sticks his hands in his pockets, and glances at the steady trickle of people leaving the building. There is a trail of freckles marching in a crooked line from the hollow of his wrist and up to his elbow, disappearing into the rolled-up sleeves of his shirt. The roots of his hair are slightly damp, the rest of it unusually fluffy; he’s recently taken a shower. His eyes are more grey than blue in the sunlight. He looks – if not nervous, then something close to it.

“Sure,” Ronan agrees.

He doesn’t know what he’s expecting Adam to show him when they climb the rickety stairs. A tough question on their Latin homework? Evidence of another assignment from Cabeswater? A letter from court? Whatever the hell he thought he was going to see, it’s not this.

“Parrish,” Ronan begins slowly, a broad smile spreading over his face that makes him appear both sharp and thoroughly delighted. “Did you get a pet?”

“It’s a turtle,” Adam says unnecessarily.

It is, indeed, a turtle. Ronan wastes no time in dropping to his knees and sticking his nose close to the creature’s shell to inspect it. It’s surprisingly small, no bigger than his palm, and even more surprisingly fast as it travels along the length of Adam’s bed with a funny sort of purpose. Ronan hums quietly, and put his finger right in the middle of its path. The turtle bumps into him, presses its wet nose to his knuckle, and lifts its head as if to level him with a look that says, _Now what?_

“He kind of reminds me of you. So I wanted you to see him first.” Adam crosses the room and sits half a foot away from where the turtle is sniffing Ronan’s hand. “I’m naming him Sunflower. Sunny, for short.”

Ronan gapes at him for a full three seconds, his brain frantically attempting to sort out which part of that he is supposed to address first. Adam got a pet that reminds him of Ronan? And he wanted Ronan to see it first. The way Ronan’s stomach swoops at that is almost enough to mask the sheer indignation he feels at the name. “You’re a fucking monster, Parrish,” he grits out finally. “Sunny?”

“For your sunny personality.”

“It’s going to murder you in your sleep.”

“It’s a he, and his name is Sunny.” The way Adam’s smile crinkles the edges of his eyes should be illegal.

Ronan doesn’t think he’s ever been more in love with him than he is now.

 

 

**_ADAM_ **

Sunny takes to life at Adam’s apartment like a duck to water. As long as Adam remembers to close all doors, fill up a plastic dish with salad, and cover the floor with old newspapers, Sunny is the happiest turtle in the world.

Adam still refuses to tell Ronan where he got the turtle, or what possessed him to get a pet in the first place.

“I get lonely here,” he deadpans with his head bent over World History reading, his palms tingling at the honestly that lurks under the comment. He doesn’t have to look up to see Ronan rolling his eyes.

“You don’t even spend time with him,” Ronan complains. He is stretched on the edge of Adam’s bed, his arm flat against the sheets in a loop. Sunny is exploring the crook of his elbow excitedly.

“I spend plenty of time with him. It’s not my fault that you scoop him out of my arms the moment you get here to the moment you leave, is it?” He lifts his eyes to shoot Ronan a glance, his eyebrows raised critically.

It’s funny, the way the sight of Ronan can catch him by surprise sometimes. The elegant lines of him, the slope of his hips, the curve of his neck as he claims Adam’s bed like he owns the damn thing. The softness of his touch as he strokes a single fingertip along Sunny’s shell absently.

Adam isn’t a complete idiot. He knows that there is too much heat in Ronan’s gaze to be appropriate, and he knows that it isn’t meaningless. Everything with Ronan has meaning; Ronan has meaning sewn into the very syllables of his name, brutal and sharp and terrified. And lately Adam has found himself filtering a similar kind of heat out of his own glances with the fine-toothed comb of uncertainty and self-pity.

Adam Parrish is not in love with Ronan Lynch, because if he is…

“I’m doing my duty as a godfather,” Ronan is saying. “Some of us have a sense of responsibility, Parrish.”

That has Adam laughing, abandoning his unsettling thoughts and the history reading in favor of nudging Ronan’s shins aside so that he can sit on the bed. “Alright, fine. I’ll try not to be an absentee father.”

“Nah, that’s my job.”

Adam freezes for a moment, the edge of his mouth dropping. He peels away the lightness of Ronan’s tone, the carelessness, and meets the boy’s eyes squarely. “That doesn’t have to be a job.”

Ronan holds his gaze for a moment, then shrugs and lets his head fall back against the pillow. Almost in spite of himself, Adam is frustrated. “Look, Ronan, if you want to talk, then –”

“I don’t want to talk.” Ronan’s voice is gruff.

“Fine. I don’t know what we’d talk about anyway.”

A pause.

Ronan sits up without warning, in one smooth movement that leaves Sunny almost as confused as Adam. One moment he is motionless on the bed, the next his hands are gripping the sheets and his face is inches away from Adam’s, slightly flushed and inexplicably wrecked. Adam wonders how the hell the conversation led them here.

“Look, Adam, I—”

“Say it again,” Adam interrupts, his heart in his throat. At Ronan’s frown, he clarifies, “My name.”

Another pause, longer and heavier than the last. It creeps into the room with all the subtlety of a freight train and settles between them, something cracking underneath its weight. Adam dares himself not to look away.

“Parrish.”

“You know what I mean.”

Ronan sucks in a sharp breath, his expression naked. “Adam.” Neither of them is sure what is happening.

This has been coming for a long time. They simply did not think that it would happen like this.

“Again.” Adam’s voice is shaking, and it feels like way Cabeswater sings to him through his blood. He has never been this close to Ronan before.

“ _Adam_.”

Adam may not be in love with Ronan Lynch, but he is in love with the way Ronan pronounces his name. Two syllables: Ad-am. _Adam_. The way Ronan’s lips part at the A, and press together at the m, like he is sealing a secret inside his mouth.

For a single moment, it looks like Ronan is going to kiss him. He leans forward a little, his breath escaping soundlessly, carrying the scent of soap and the interior of the BMW and a hint of Adam’s sheets. His eyes are the darkest blue that Adam has ever seen. The sharpness has gone from him, slipped away when neither of them was paying attention.

Ronan does not kiss him. Ronan gets up and retrieves his jacket and leaves.

“Fuck,” Adam whispers. His Henrietta accent slips over the word and settles there.

Sunny bumps his nose into the abandoned pillow.


End file.
